The chime of the church bell across the street is a daily reminder of what she has done. Below her window, the oblivious people don’t even notice the muted clang of the bronze clapper against the bell’s body, but to her, it is a thunderous and deafening reminder that she will never escape the turbulence within her.
In the four years since this sound has mutated from a familiar comfort to a haunting torment, she has taken a different route to work, avoiding the church’s stained glass windows as the freshly awakened sun casts colors onto the sidewalk.
As a little girl, she would gaze up at that stained glass with the kind of awe only a small child can possess. She remembers the way the sun’s rays would slant through the collage of seemingly disjointed colors, creating a magical sea of iridescence on the wood pews around her. She would imagine God twirling the sun on his finger, just as her dad would do with a basketball, and tossing it into position at just the right moment of the service. Then He would whisper, only to her, “My darling, I am right here.”
God doesn’t whisper to her anymore.
Now, it is only fear who whispers. It has become her constant companion, leading her around by the neck, like a slave. It owns her heart, her body, and it mercilessly murdered her faith.
***
She met him when she was twenty-two. The way he wrapped his arms around her reminded her of the way her father used to do it, a father who could only be seen at St. Joseph’s Cemetery. He wasn’t exactly like her father, but she began to see the situation as she wanted it, not as it really was, like a child who grins through a spanking.
When she sat him down, tears leaving canyons in her makeup, to tell him he’d be a father, his response birthed an inescapable darkness into her body:
“I don’t want it.”
***
She purposefully parked in the far corner of the lot, walking slowly, hoping her heart would convince her legs to turn around before it was too late. She gazed up at the gaping, distorted second-story window; its dark center broadened as she got nearer, threatening to devour her. She hesitated, closing her eyes tightly and steadying her breath.
Turn around, Lyla.
This was her last thought before she stepped through the double doors, into complete and absolute darkness.
***
Four years later and this darkness still lives within her, perhaps it is the only thing keeping her alive.
She does her best to avoid her apartment on Sundays, since the bell is especially active. A vanilla latte at Little Albert’s Coffee Company has become her morning routine. She sits in the far corner, attempting to stay out of sight, a habit she has become skilled at preserving, until today.
“Lyla?”
She had been trying to avoid the old man since he sat down uneasily close to her table, but the sound of her name startled her as she turned to look at him, “Yes?”
Even though the skin around had lost its sheen, his eyes were a striking green, “You may not know me, but I think we live in the same building. 502 East Bourbon Street?”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry. I guess I didn’t recognize you,” Lyla had no desire to continue this conversation.
“You seem awfully lonely for a beautiful young lady.”
Startled by his bluntness, Lyla wasn’t sure how to respond.
“I’m sorry. I’m going to have to leave,” she said as she began to pack up her things.
“Where are you headed?”
Lyla fiddled with the zipper on her jacket as the silence between them grew. Then, with a sudden desire to tell him everything, she responded, “I have absolutely no idea.”
His smile welcomed her into a world she had forgotten, “Well, I tell you what, I am headed to church. Would you like to join me?”
Just the sound of that word moved her body away from him as no fell from her lips, a bit more harshly than she intended.
“I’m — I’m sorry. I-I just don’t…believe.”
“Oh Lyla. I’m not sure that’s true,” he gazed at her with a compassion she had forgotten existed.
Then, while she struggled to maintain her comfortable and lonely life, she began to follow the man out the door and down the sidewalk.
***
They walked in silence, but Lyla was curious how such a small and crooked man could emit such peace, so she kept sneaking glances at him.
She heard the bells when they reached the 500th block of Bourbon street, and her fists tightened at her side. Her breath quickened as the church came into view. The chipped and faded brick on the front had clearly not been replaced since she was a girl, and an overbearing vine had engulfed the railing beside the front steps.
When the doors opened, revealing a crowd of perfect people in the lobby, and a large smiling face near the door. Lyla stopped, unable to continue.
At that moment, the old man’s voice sounded much further away than it was, “Look, my dear! Surely, the Lord handmade that stained glass!”
Deliberately avoiding the hustle of people in the lobby, Lyla’s eyes settled on the flawless jumble of glass fragments far above her head; her shoulders fell and her breath slowed. Then, as if the very hand of God Himself stood before her with His conductor’s wand, the sun shifted to a perfect position, casting an orchestra of color around her. No longer being controlled by her mind, but her heart, Lyla’s arms lifted from her sides as the colors bathed her in their radiant pigment. The unmistakable voice she had rejected with such fervency rose above her fears, saying, “My darling, I am right here.”
With that, Lyla floated through the doors, as an unfamiliar smile shone upon her face.
